JxHQ: To Catch A Thief
by princessebee
Summary: A mysterious rash of Charlie Chaplin crimes are sweeping Gotham City and it seems they're designed to attract the attention of the Joker. Just who is behind them - and why? COMPLETE!
1. Chapter 1

**ONE**

Everybody loves a clown.

The Joker had been banking on it. The crowd at Charlie Chaplin's 100th Birthday Celebrations in Robinson Park had spilled out onto the sidewalk. A huge outdoor cinema had been erected just for the occasion, the beloved comedian's films playing throughout the day. Roving "tribute artists" - better known as impersonators – brought Chaplin's best kknowncharacters to life for the delight of the crowds. Grandparents held hands with their young grandchildren, carefree students mingled with strait-laced professionals – beneath the shimmering screen, all people were levelled. It was the sort of crowd the Joker loved best – indiscriminate, diverse and unaware of its own impending mortality.

It was a good thing, then, that the Batman had been ready and waiting when the murderous maniac and his perennial henchgirl had burst through the screen, the Joker in the classic attire of the Tramp with Harley Quinn in complimentary rags as the Kid, the liliripes of her cowl pinned behind her.

There had been so special clues or hints dropped that the psychotic clown would choose this event as the scene of his next crime; the Batman had simply known he wouldn't be able to resist and had patiently lain in wait.

"What better way to honour the genius who has so inspired my work than by ensuring his name is forever entwined with mine?" the Joker had trilled to the panicking crowd as Batman, Robin and Batgirl swooped through the trees. A batarang knocked the detonator from the Joker's hand and the clown's euphoria changed in an instant to fury and he threw a full-blown tantrum, comically jumping up and down on his hat.

"I've got a backup, Mistah J!" Harley Quinn shouted from the crowd, pulling another detonator from a pocket of her grubby jacket, finger poised above the button.

"I wanna do it!" the Joker shrieked warningly as Batman paused to lift a couple of screaming kids to safety.

Harley wound back with one arm. "Go long, go long!"

"Watch out!" he shrieked, "Incoming Robin at eight o'clock! Shoot someone! Distract him! Don't lose that detonator!"

Harley looked frantically around as the crowd continued to stampede. An elderly man huddled on a torn picnic blanket, protecting two small children beneath his body as they screamed in fear. They were the only non-moving targets as far as the eye could see.

Nobody missed the tremor in Harley's hand as she lifted her gun, not Robin, not Batgirl, not Batman and most definitely not the Joker.

After a second Harley swung the gun around and shot at the Boy Wonder as he came swooping down towards her, the bullet missing his ear by inches. "You freaks really know how to crash a party!"

Robin somersaulted through the air, landing neatly then spinning around to face the crazed harlequin.

"Aw, don't be like that, Harley – I just left my invite in my other costume!" Robin quipped back, ducking as Harley fired off a few more shots, before turning to run toward her psychotic beau.

"Hey Mistah J, heads up - " she began, winding back the arm holding the detonator, before coming to an abrupt halt. "Huh?"

The Joker was nowhere to be seen.

"Looks like you're left holding the bag on this one, Harley," Robin smugly punctuated his kick. Harley just barely managed to duck, then thrust forward with a punch that glanced off the Boy Wonder's shoulder.

"It's not his fault! It's you creeps, always ruinin' his plans! You just don't share his vision!" Harley punchlined her final words by throwing a handful of tiny explosives to the pavement. They exploded in brilliant bursts of light, momentarily blinding Robin, who recoiled in pain.

When his sight returned, Harley had joined her demented beau in vanishing. Chaplin's unmistakable face hung in shreds from the screen that flickered and shifted as the movie continued to play above panicked citizens who shrieked and fought to escape from the park, too mindless in their fear to realise the danger had passed.

Directly in front of him was the elderly man, still protecting his grandchildren, gazing up at the young hero as he strode over to them.

"Let me take the kids, Sir, I can get them to saftey," Robin reached out to take one of the huddled children gently but firmly in his arms.

"She didn't shoot," the old man quavered. "Why didn't she shoot?"

Robin couldn't answer him.


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO**

Harley Quinn burst into the hideout, out of breath and frantic.

"Mistah J!" she called out, "Puddin', are ya here?"

She wove her way through the Funhouse corridors until the familiar sound of a Marx Bros film piped through the distorted mirrors. She darted around twists and turns until the corridors opened up into their living area, where the Joker sat hunched up on the couch, glaring at the television.

"Puddin', what's wrong?" she cried, dashing to his side. "Are ya sick? Are ya hurt? What happened, to make ya run off like that halfway through a caper?"

The Joker slumped down further in his chair, his face a mask of fury. He hadn't bothered to remove his overcoat or fedora and now he pulled the brim of his hat right down over his face. Heedless, Harley knelt at his feet, imploring him.

"I know the Batgeeks showed up to ruin it all, but ya still could've got a giggle out of the crowd! We had another detonator! Why would you go and do somethin' like let Batman spoil Chaplin's birthday? You planned months for that! Ain't nobody was as excited as you was, Puddin', and you had such such special plans to give him a real fittin' tribute! That opportunity ain't gonna come around again anytime soon!"

Far from appeasing the Joker, Harley's words only served to further incite him. Beneath the stark whiteness of his deathly pallor, the Joker was slowly turning a dull brick red, and beneath the thoughtless words that tumbled from Harley Quinn's mouth, the quiet grinding of his teeth could be heard.

Finally, he turned to his oblivious moll with a look of such undistilled venom, Harley felt her skin blister.

"Do. You. Have. _Any_. Idea. How _embarrassing_ that was?" he hissed, the whites of his eyes flooding red.

As a general rule, Harley was singularly oblivious to the danger of being in the Joker's space. She generally had no qualms about getting up close and personal with the murderous clown, seeming heedless to the very real repercussions that had most fighting over the corner furtherest from him.

But Harley always knew when it was time to back off, and that time had come.

Quick as a wink and without turning away from him, Harley had backed up across the room, gazing at her livid paramour with wide, wary eyes as he rose slowly to his feet, a tall, menacing pillar of trembling rage.

"You completely let me down!" he spat at her. "Humiliated, embarrassed and disgraced me – and, as if that wasn't bad enough, you imbecilic excuse for a _sidekick_," Harley flinched at the insulting moniker which offended her more than any other – henchgirl, she was a _henchgirl._ "You. Did it. in. front. of. BATMAN!"

On his last shrieked word, Joker violently kicked over a nearby table, spilling Joker cards, rubber chickens and party sparklers across the tiles. A pair of chattering teeth were set off, rattling loudly in the space between them as the Joker panted, glaring at his cowering girlfriend.

"Hang on a second!" Harley began valiantly. "I did everything, just like you told me! There wasn't a thing that went wrong, Boss – nothin'! Everything was goin' right to plan! I don't understand!"

The Joker's eyes bulged at the revelation that, not only had his girl screwed up, she didn't even know _how_.

"_What's wrong with you?_" he hollered, picking up the kicked over table and hurtling it across the room. Harley squeaked and jumped out of the way and it hit the wall, splintering. "You stupid wretch of a girl! After all the time and effort and energy I've poured into you, everything I've given you and shown you and taught you, all the little parts and roles I've permitted you to play and this is how you repay me?"

Harley was quaking with distress more than fear. Her Puddin' was a temperamental man, wont to fly into rages at the slightest provocation. She just couldn't stand it when those rages were at _her_. She truly hated to let him down – but she honestly didn't know how she had possibly screwed up in this instance.

"Boss, please," she pleaded. "I swear I don't know what I did! I didn't mean it, whatever it - "

"_**You hesitated!**_" the Joker roared. "When I ordered you to distract the BatBrat and there was a perfectly good sitting duck right there in front of you, you hesitated! _Everyone_ saw you, including the Batman! Do you have any comprehension of how humiliated I felt? For you to do such a thing to me!"

Realisaton began to dawn on Harley as she recalled the moment which had so distressed her man. The truth was, she had already forgotten that brief reluctance to kill a helpless old man – she'd been too caught up in the rest of the fun. It was just that – their eyes had met and for some reason she'd found herself deciding that she could distract the Birdboy without going that far. She hadn't even stopped to consider that Mistah J might take it so seriously or consider it such an affront. Her eyes welled up with tears – once again she'd disappointed him without meaning to!

"M-maybe he didn't notice?" she ventured tentatively and the Joker whirled on her, his eyes wild and teeth bared.

"Of course he noticed!" he fumed. "He notices _everything_. He's probably making some petty little note about it back on his groaning great Batcomputer in his dank, dirty little Batcave! Probably laughing at me right now!"

That was too horrible a thought to bear and Harley cringed at it.

"An absolute disgrace," the Joker continued to rave, still throwing random novelties and kicking the furniture. "in front of Batman, you! **You**! Right in front of him. After all the faith and guidance I've poured into you – and you've turned into nothing more than a colossal disappointment!"

It was too much to hear the words themselves from his mouth. Harley burst into tears. "I'm so sorry, Mistah J!" she wailed. "Please, please give me another chance! I'll do better, I swear I will!"

But the Joker could not be appeased. "Another chance to disgrace me?" he shouted, storming towards her so that she slid down the wall, holding her arms up in front of her. "I don't think so, missy! The Joker runs a tight ship – no. Slackers. Onboard!"

He stopped and glared down at her, hands balled into fists, green hair in disarray around his livid face, teeth gritted. In fury, the Joker was as terrifying a sight as could be imagined and now, he was the only thing she could see.

Then he abruptly straightened up and flung one arm towards the exit, one long finger pointing the way. "Out," he growled.

"Oh, no, Puddin'!" she sobbed, gazing imploringly up at him. But the Joker remained resolute.

"Get. Out," he enuciated fiercely.

Of all the things he could do to her, this had to be the worst. She could take anything, absolutely anything at all – let him beat her, kick her, yell at her, tell her how stupid and useless she was, ignore her for hours or days at a time, embarrass her in front of the goons or the Batfamily – just so long as he let her stay by his side.

But to do this – to tell her to leave, to expect her to get up on her own two feet, put one in front of the other, and walk away from him – it was the cruellest, bitterest of punishments. And he knew it, too.

She staggered to her feet only for her knees to buckle beneath her. "I can't!" she wept. "I can't leave you! I can't get up and walk away from you."

He leaned right down into her face and his eyes gleamed with malice. "Then _crawl,_" he growled.

He watched her coldly as she crept across the tiles, almost on her belly, weeping miserably. The act of leaving him was savage in its pain, his sneer salt in the wound.

"Pathetic," he spat and she flinched.

But maybe if she did what he told her to do – maybe if she showed him how sorry she was – maybe he wouldn't make her leave.

But when she crossed over the doorway and turned around to glance back hopefully at him, she saw nothing but the flash of his spats and a cruel smile before the door slammed shut in her face.


	3. Chapter 3

The Joker was a free man.

He was loving it. Not only had he been liberated from Arkham Asylum for a deliciously long stretch of time, not only had his bar tab at the Iceberg Lounge been cleared and not only had they finally axed that godawful _Comedy Hour _show so he could finally stop watching it whilst making copious notes on all the things they were doing wrong and sending them into the network written on Smilex-laced paper, but he'd finally dumped that overbearing piece of dead weight, Harley Quinn, once and for all.

"Zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay! My oh my, what a wonderful day," he sang cheerily as he danced into his echoingly empty hideout. His voice reverberated off the walls, bouncing back to surround him _in stereo_, and he delighted at the sound of his own magnificent voice, spinning in circles so that it duplicated over and over as though there were a thousand of him in the room. "No inept little brats to get in my way! Zip-a-dee-doo-da, zip-a-dee-ay!"

He spun so fast, one foot snagged the rug and sent him tumbling over the back of the couch with an "oof!" With his legs above his head, he blinked away the vertigo then began to giggle. "Finally, it's just me, myself and I again!" he crowed. "No moronic little twits to cramp my style, or crowd the room or bore me witless!" He had so much to look forward to – if Harley hadn't distracted him from paying attention to himself, she'd prevented him from entertaining himself. Life with her had been a long, boring, lonely experience and now she was gone he could finally get back to _living_ again and giving some much-missed devotion to the most important person in his life - _himself_.

Bringing his legs over his head, he clumsily backrolled into a standing position, vigorously dusting off his jacket. However, his smile quickly dropped into a frown when he caught sight of the wall opposite him.

The wall was a motley mural of painted images, pasted photographs and clippings and various odds and ends glued onto it. A french horn jutted out above a sloppy impression of singing flowers daubed in oil paint. Googly eyes on wire springs dangled like a macabre chandelier from out of a faded poster of Judy Holliday. The centerpiece of the surreal canvas was a blown-up photograph of Charlie Chaplin, a party hat glued to his head and a string of birthday candles around his neck – the wax ends having been flattened and affixed to the wall so the wicks pointed upwards. Scorch marks on the image and droplets of wax down the ridged and multi-coloured cylinders revealed the candles had been lit. Above Chaplin's famous head, the words had been scrawled:

"_All I need to make a comedy is a park, a policeman and a pretty girl."_

A quote from the grandmeister himself.

When pondering how he could celebrate Chaplin's centennary in fitting style, this quote had provided him with the inspiration. This quote, and the sight of Harley skipping around the lair in knee-high stripey socks, a pair of smiley-face cottontails and a little slouch hat pulled down over her pigtails. Just like The Kid had worn.

And he'd been fired with fevered inspiration.

The park was Robinson Park with its open-air screening festival. The policeman was Batman. And Harley – Harley was the pretty girl.

Comedy!

Of course, he hadn't _told _Harley she'd played a part in his conjuring of ideas. And it wasn't as though he had to as, in the end, the scheme had little to do with her at all – it had all been simply a jumble of elements interacting at the right moment to start off the plot – like a heap of trash which the spark could catch.

Still. In her little slouch hat and ridiculous socks, Harley had made him sit up and shout _Eureka_, and that made her betrayal – her _insult_, her _embarrassment_– all the more offensive.

Scowling now, Joker strode forward and squeezed the flower on his lapel so that a stream of hissing acid hit the bizarre artwork-cum-maniacal scheme and spread outwards, devouring his genius with angry rapidity.

"A disgrace to the name Joker!" He shrieked, shaking a fist at the evaporating mix of multimedia. "After all that time and energy and effort I poured into the little wretch and how does she repay me! Humiliation! A true disappointment! A colossal fai – yaaaaargh!"

He wrenched the semi-auto from the holster beneath his jacket and fired a multitude of shots into the mushy mess the bricks beneath his scheme had become. Crumbled and disturbingly warm bits of brick spattered against his face as he seethed, emptying the round before throwing the pistol at the wall and sinking in comical despair back onto his haunches.

He'd been about to say "failure" before the full import of the word had sunk in. Spittle foamed at the corner of his mouth and long fingers tangled in his hair, wrenching at the roots. After all, she was _his_, _his_ little project, _his_ creation, _his_ example. _Failure. _No. No. No.

_What if it spread around Arkham?_

NO.

The thought was unbearable. He could imagine it now, Eddie snickering behind his hand, Harv giving him a sneering beady eye and Pam – oh, the gloating! He could see the redhead's smug smile now. No words. No, no words, just those spearmint green eyes laughing at him. Laughing. At. HIM.

And the doctors! What would the doctors think? They'd want to ask the useless little nincompoop _questions_ and then they'd ask him _questions_ and then they'd all sit down with their stupid little notebooks and pens and write _stupid little notes_ analysing "the situation" as though they could _ever_ understand.

They'd _question_. Question _him_. Question his hold on her. Question what he could _do_.

The Joker let out a pained sob and threw himself up onto his feet, staggering in his misery. What had he been thinking? The truth was, he'd taken pity on the kid – it was obvious from the start she wasn't up to the gag. But she'd been interested and he thought he'd give her an out. If he'd _known_ from the start that she'd stick to him like a fly in molasses – not just in person, not just in devotion, but _in association _ – he would've just talked her into an internal body search and then been done with it.

Now he was stuck with her baggage. Possibly – and the Joker blanched where he stood in his theatrical lair – possibly _forever._

" Never again!" he declared to the silent room, which made him no answer but the soft echo of his own wonderful voice.

He stood and waited while the echoes faded away and then swivelled his wiry neck from side to side, gazing all around the deserted lair from red-curtained nooks to lumpy couches. He was a free man now. He was alone. Again.

He bared his teeth and threw back his head. "Never again!" he roared, then kicked a chair over in disgust before striding towards the doorway. He needed to let off some steam.


	4. Chapter 4

**FOUR**

"Tell me," the comically deep voice said to Bert Jackson, who blinked up at the brightly reflective disc hovering directly above his face. "Does it hurt when I do this?"

A second later and pain wracked through Bert's body so that his back arched up and he _screamed_. Pain, pain so bright and intense, so vicious and unrelenting, so absolutely _pure_ that there were no words that could possibly describe it except _pain_.

Pain was Bert Jackson's world.

When the pain ebbed away, the world – the world without pain, the world he had called normal just a few, short hours ago – seemed unreal. The curious absence of intensity and sensation left behind when the pain stopped – the shuddering relief his body plunged into – had a dreamy quality to it. Like it could end at any moment.

His body slumped back against the gurney he was strapped tightly to, the wheezing sound of his own breath a disturbing soundtrack that was interrupted by one far more frightening.

"Hurrrrrm, patient admits to mild discomfort," the contrived baritone seemed to come from all points of the room, bouncing off white tiles as Bert's pounding head swivelled around, his bleary eyes catching glimpses of strange apparatus and trolleys scattered with menacing tools. "Suspect he's holding back however..."

Then his vision was obscured by the same twisted face that had so tormented him for what seemed an eternity, the distorted grin like the mouth of Hell, above it two bloodshot eyes gleaming with malicious fire.

"Come on now, you can trust me," the voice continued with undisguised amusement, sliding upwards in register. "I'm a doctor!" The Joker threw back his head and shrieked laughter then and Bert Jackson pissed himself.

The clown, clad in a long white doctor's coat complete with parabolic mirror strapped around his forehead, spun around and began to rattle through the assortment of surgical toys he was using to get relaxed and unwind.

"Dear oh dear," he continued in a playfully scolding tone. "Patient exhibits signs of incontinence – this _must_ be serious!"

On a table close to where the Joker played doctor on his hapless victim, a television set quietly played the news. Bert Jackson blinked strained eyes at the set, the sight of the pretty brunette newsreader seeming impossibly surreal. Life, she was broadcasting, life as it was, as he'd known it. On she went, broadcasting the minutae of the world, completely oblivious to the colossal upheaval it was suffering in Bert Jackson's slow, leisurely murder.

"... while it may seem reasonable to assume the Clown Prince of Crime may be behind this latest atrocity after the failure of his attempted massacre in Robinson Park yesterday, police say the crime lacks the usual calling cards to mark this as a Joker crime..."

At the sound of his name, the Joker straightened abruptly and spun around to face the television, gazing at it with a rapt and keen expression. Bert eyeballed him feverishly, blinking away the sweat that blurred his gaze. The Clown didn't heed him, all of his attention fixed on the object that was currently affirming his existence.

"... nonetheless the specific cruelty of the attack is reminescent of the Joker's preferred style," the newsreader continued. The Joker sneered and put his hands on his hips, momentarily forgetting all about his victim while Bert waited in unrelieved anxiety, the lapse only heightening his terror for what was to come. "Just yesterday, Diego Fernandez Martinez was delighting the crowds at a marathon screening of Charlie Chaplin's best-loved films, playing live piano accompaniment – a hobby began when he was a teenager that he was able to parlay into a career for Gotham City's large silent-film appreciation society. A lover of silent films himself, Fernandez Martinez was renowned for not just the precision and skill with which he played, but the passion."

A montage of images of a bespectacled man with thick eyebrows and a bright smile shown variously posed in front of an old upright piano or hunched over the keys, fingertips in motion, were played across the screen. The Joker snorted, then turned companionably to his trussed-up victim, motioning to the television set in disgust.

"He tinkered passably well, but I'll never forgive him for fudging the keychange during the boxing scene of _City Lights_ at the old Slap n' Tickle screening in '92. Ruined the entire viewing!"

"But all of that has come to a end with a shocking attack that has baffled police and appalled the public."

"Ooooh," the Joker was engaged again, standing up straight and dropping a companionable hand atop Bert's head, who flinched violently. "Sounds _interesting_."

The set flickered and shifted to the crime scene – or, at least, a shot of the street outside the crime scene, where rain-coated police officers bustled fixing police tape or transporting evidence out of Fernando Martinez' home whilst plainclothes detectives lurked in corners out of the rain with steaming sytrofoam cups of coffee, throwing the occasional contemptuous glance at the cameras.

"Sometime during the night, Fernando Martinez was taken hostage in his home and subjected to severe physical and psychological torture – his wrists having been opened and, with surgical precision, their tendons cut. While the gashes were then neatly resewn, a medical expert consulted by Gotham One has stated that, once healed, though Fernando Martinez may appear to have perfectly normal hands, he will never play the piano again."

"Huh," the Joker said thoughtfully, leaning his weight a little heavier atop Bert's head.

"While police are not releasing images of the crime scene, it is understood Fernando Martinez was found sedated and with a sheet of music identified as a passage from a Charlie Chaplin film, _City Lights_, shoved into his mouth.

"Written on the page, in the victim's own blood, were the words -" a split pause as the newsreader quickly checked her next words on the teleprompter. " - 'To truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it.'" The newsreader just managed to conceal her discomfort before continuing. "Detective Bullock had the following to say:"

The image changed to one of a rumpled and overweight detective before a fleet of outheld microphones, his stubbled chin wobbling with each word he spoke, blood shot eyes squinting into the camera.

"We've identified the srcawl as one made by tha' famous comedian, Charlie Chaplin," the detective spoke with a distinctive drawl, as though even saying the words outloud taxed his energy reserves to their limit. "Bewteen that, the sheeta music and the Joker havin' tried ruinin' the Chaplin centennary celebrations yesterday, we figure some whackjob out there is sendin' some sorta message to the so-called Clown Prince. Just what this city needs – one more kook with a gimmick and nothin' to prove."

"Do the police have any leads on what the message means?" an off-camera reporter interjected as the detective started to turn away.

"A formal statement will be issued from HQ at a future time," the brusque detective shot back over his shoulder, turning up the corner of his battered trenchcoat against the rain.

The Joker's hand had taken hold of Bert's head and the traumatised victim squeezed his eyes shut tight as the Joker's grip tightened during the story's unfolding.

"Well, hidey-ho, pip-pip, slap the doctor and drop the baby," the Joker sneered dangerously. "Who's out there sending crude little love notes to Mr. J, hurrrrm?" He roughly swivelled Bert's head upwards to face him, glaring down at his victim with maniacal eyes and a venomous smile. "Thoughts, Bert?"

Bert heaved in several haggard breaths and, before he even knew it himself, had opened his mouth and began to stutter.

"P-p-p-ph - " he heard himself blub, though he didn't recognise his voice. The Joker's quirked an eyebrow in mild interest and assumed a more attentive attitude.

"Mmmmmm?" The Joker cupped a hand behind his ear.

Bert shuddered and gasped and tried again: "Puh-puh-pleaseeee - "

Before he could finish the Joker's brow flickered with annoyance and the Clown Prince clapped a hand over his wobbling mouth.

"Oh you're not just going to beg for your miserable life, are you?" the Joker pouted. "Like I haven't heard all that before! How boring! I guess we've reached the end of the line, in that case." He turned away and began to rummage once more through his cart of surgical toys, whistling softly.

Bert's pain-addled mind slowly made sense of the mad clown's words as the scrape and chink of steel against steel echoed off the tiled walls. He began to whine, a quiet, high-pitched noise that made the Joker straighten up and whirl around with a wolfish grin.

"Yannow, ole Chaz had more than one thing to say on the subject of humour," the Joker advised Bert Jackson, brandishing a bone saw. "Wanna know what my personal fave quote of his is?"

The Joker flicked a switch and the bone saw ground into action, emitting a whine that merged and mingled with Bert's own as the terrified man began to violently shake, his body jerking up against the restraints that held him tight. The Joker slammed his free hand against Bert's shoulder, pinning him to the gurney.

"In the end," the Joker shrieked, bringing the hysterically whirring saw towards Bert's sweating forehead. "_everything_ is a gag!"


	5. Chapter 5

**FIVE**

Jimmy Callow swallowed around the lump in his throat and stared straight ahead with a frozen grin straining the muscles of his face.

The Joker – his current employer – was sitting uncomfortably close to him on the couch, enthusiastically engaging Jimmy in conversation.

A conversation with the Joker meant smiling and nodding whilst the manical clown espoused at length on whatever random topic was at that moment rocketing its way through his crazed brain.

Not that the Joker was actually interested in what his companions might have to say. Although the madman obeyed all the conventions of conversation in opening topical threads, asking questions and even soliciting opinion, he was far more interested in hearing himself talk. He became quickly disgruntled if one of the 'mooks', as he referred to his hired muscle, was actually hapless enough to talk _back_. Never one to stand on social niceties, the Joker would make his feelings known by pointedly silencing the foolish goon – _permanently._

Jimmy had been around long enough to witness one henchman lose his tongue, another his lower jaw and yet another his entire mouth of teeth – one by one. Nothing save whim seemed to dictate the severity of the Joker's lessons and so the best approach was to switch between attentive silence and appreciative laughter.

So even though the nearby radio was currently broadcasting the nail-biting, edge-of-the-seat season end game between the Metropolis Meteors and the Gotham Goliaths, a game that every red-blooded Gotham male had risked the wrath of wife, boss and mistress to gather around television sets and radios so as to take in every last breathtaking play – a game that, at that very moment, the rest of the Joker's henches were watching in an adjoining room – Jimmy's entire attention was riveted to his psychotic boss.

Knowing _when_ to laugh at the Joker's jokes was a delicate matter, requiring a sophisticated degree of perception and a sense of nuance not commonly required of henchmen in Gotham City. Sometimes the Joker wanted a bellylaugh – but _not always. _Sometimes he expected merely a titter, or a conspiratorial smirk. No matter how many cruel jokes he made at her expense, laughing at the Boss' girl was strictly a no-go zone, second only to laughing at the Joker himself – which was akin to suicide. Considerable effort had to go towards being convincing as well – although Jimmy suspected the Joker knew most of them faked it and just tolerated it if they put out a good enough show.

One couldn't simply _appear_ to be paying attention in order to gratify the Joker's ego either – most of Gotham's major Rogues were variously narcissistic but none of them were quite so quick to dispose of oblivious or inattentive henchmen as the mad clown. The Riddler contented himself by flinging elaborate insults, the Penguin simply dismissed in exasperation and Poison Ivy had her own particular ways of soliciting attention when she craved it – not that _that_ was exactly unpleasant, mind you.

But when it came to the Joker, one had to stay on one's toes – and that meant enduring every single word that poured out with riveted attention and trying one's damndest to keep up.

As Jimmy Callow was now.

"How often do you suppose a one-hundredth birthday rolls around, Freddy my boy?" The Joker was saying. Jimmy didn't dare correct the Joker. The names of henchmen were never important to the Clown Prince – unless one had offended him. "Especially the one-hundredth birthday of a comedic legend like Sir Chaz?" The Joker was flinging his arms about, eyes bulging as he expressed his bitterness. This close and Jimmy could see how the whites of his eyes were veined in red and the laughlines that crossed over and over each other like traintracks, could smell the Joker's old-fashioned cologne, feel the beat of his hot breath as he exclaimed. It was horrifying. "This week was supposed to be _special_, Frederico, special to me. Sacred. Profound. Marking off the centennary of the birth of one of my greatest inspirations – my own little homage, my own, my deeply, sincerely personal tribute. A tip of the brim of my purple fedora. A wink and a nudge from one comedy great to another. Something upon which old Chappers could chortle down upon from that great old Music Hall in the sky! And what happens? I ask you, Freddo, _what happens?__"_

Jimmy debated answering. It was possible the Joker wanted him to at least ask 'what?'. Sometimes he liked a little reaction. "_Don't just grin and think of the money__"_, Joker had once yelled to a disembowelled hench, gesticulating wildly with a bloody poker. _"__Let me know you're alive in there!__"_

Realising the Joker had been dangerously silent for over five seconds shook Jimmy out of his unpleasant reminescings. The Joker was staring at him with clenched teeth, sweat beading his long face, a vein protruding across his forehead. His manner was unmistakably expectant.

"Err, what happens, Boss?" Jimmy stammered and the Joker paused a moment longer before gusting a great breath out through his nostrils and then continuing, having clearly decided he wanted a breathing audience a while longer while he aired his grievances against fate. Jimmy's guts uncoiled in relief.

"What happens is that _she _sabotages the whole affair with her impossible, unbelievable, unfathomable _ineptness_. She _taints _and_ tarnishes _the whole beauty of this once-in-a-lifetime event with her chronic unprofessionalism! _The show must go on! _Has she never heard the phrase, the rule all truly great performers and artists must live and die by?"

Jimmy had shrunk back against the couch as the Joker, in his excitement, had leaned further and further forward, his voice steadily rising to a bellow. Spittle sprayed against Jimmy's nervous face, but he didn't dare move for fear of further enraging the Clown Prince.

"And so a great work of art – a masterpiece – is tattered. A genius is denied his final dues, with nothing but a paltry picnic in the park to mark the passing of one hundred years since his great birth. It's positively _criminal_, Freddster, _criminal_."

By now Jimmy was simply enduring the Joker's mad attention, hands digging into the couch, sweat pouring down his brow as he stared into the psychopath's eyes and prayed for a quick reprieve.

A tinny roar emitted from the radio behind them as a particularly great touchdown was achieved for the Goliaths and in that moment, Jimmy's heart yearned with a great, devouring ache that he had gone on and taken that job at the restaurant his brother-in-law had offered him ten years ago. Then everything afterwards would have been different and he, too, could be just one more average schmoe who'd never met the Joker, pulling back on a brewskie and watching a great game, not a care in the world. The swiftly passing football match had become a beacon of normalcy and survival to the beleagured James Callow.

The Joker pounced forward, clutched Jimmy by the lapels and started shaking him.

"And now what?" he bellowed. "Tell me, Fred! Now what?"

Teeth rattling in his head, Jimmy could only think: "Now what _what_?" What did the Joker mean by that? Did the Joker even want an answer? Was there any possible way Jimmy could avoid death?

On the radio the completed football game gave way to a news update, the voice of the newsreader sounding small and confined: "Another Charlie Chaplin-related crime was discovered today, fuelling speculation this latest rash of themed-assaults are intended to attract the attention of the Joker."

At the sound of his name, the Joker lifted his head and abruptly let go of Jimmy's collar, who fell back against the couch, relieved. A razor-narrow escape.

"The plot thickens," the Joker announced to no one in particular, fixing his attention on the small, purple-laquered box which sat on a shelf behind them.

"Popular comic artist Trudy Bastian only two days ago was celebrating the release of a special coffee-table edition of her best beloved works – caricatures of some of the greatest scenes from Charlie Chaplin's movies – arranged to coincide with the one hundredth anniversary of the revered comedian's birth - "

"BAH!" The Joker shouted, leaping to his feet so suddenly that Jimmy cowered back into the couch, raising his arms above his head to shield himself. Quickly putting rest to the notion he may have forgotten about Jimmy's presence, the Joker whirled on him and shouted:

"Caricatures of a clown! Freddy, I ask you, is that not the most ridiculously redundant notion you ever heard of? Yet this two-bit charlatan of a cartoonist raked in the dough for it! Shut up!"

Jimmy hadn't been going to say anything but the Joker swotted him across the head anyway, clearly anxious to hear the rest of the report.

"But Bastian's career has been brought to an abrupt end today with a crime that is not only senseless, but horrific in its cruelty. "

Jimmy, his guts in cramps of fear, could not take his eyes from the Joker, towering above him. One of the madman's eyebrows cocked in curiosity at the news that was unfolding. With agonising slowness, the Joker turned away from Jimmy, fixing his gaze on the innocuous radio.

"Ms Bastian was found alone in her home after dialling nine-one-one. At first glance, she was uninjured although in severe distress. Upon examination, it emerged quickly that Ms Bastian had been blinded through an excision of the corneas – a thin cut across the surface of the eyes themselves, leaving an outwardly normal appearance but rendering the victim entirely sightless. The nature of the injury is such that it is incurable."

Jimmy watched as the Joker took a dreamy step forward towards the radio, his long arms dangling loose by his sides. As softly and quickly as he could, Jimmy began to edge away, blinking away the sweat that trickled into his eyes, praying his courduroy pants would not squeak against the leather couch.

"Pinned to Ms Bastian's blouse was a page torn from her book, a caricature of Chaplin's famous face, and inscribed with the words: "Life is a tragedy when seen in close-up, but a comedy in long shot."

The Joker tittered, an eerie, almost girlish sound in the echoing lair, then crossed his arms over each other. A shiver wiggled down Jimmy's spine. From his position behind the Joker, he could just see the clown was tapping the fingers of one hand against his arm. They flickered like spider's legs.

Jimmy continued to stare intently at the Joker's back but by now had edged off the couch and was backing up carefully towards the nearest exit.

"Police are requesting that anyone with information about these crimes contact them immediately. Thus far the perpetrator has made no demands or given any indication as to what his or her intention may be. It is considered almost a certainty, however, that the identity behind these crimes is attempting to provoke the Joker – an act that will certainly lead to yet more bloodshed."

"HA!" The Joker exclaimed, flinging his arms wide. Jimmy jumped, then darted quickly towards the door. "I may have waved a gun in your face the last time I crashed the Gotham Creative Arts Centre Ball, but that hardly makes us bee-eff-eff, bucko!"

With the Joker's attention now entirely fixed on the radio and its broadcaster, Jimmy felt sure his safe escape was at hand. He had only to grasp the door handle, twist it, pull back the door and slip through it – without making a sound.

The Joker continued to gesticulate wildly, his green hair waving about in his excitement. "But you presume to speak with such authority about my personal, individual response! Honestly! The nerve of some people. Nothing more than sycophantic, brown-nosin' name-droppers wanting a little celebrity glory to rub off on them. Say 'boo' to them once and the next thing ya know, they're on local radio big-notin' themselves for it! Can you believe it, Freddo?"

And then the Joker had turned to face his hapless hench, unfurling long fingers towards him in question.

Caught with the door partway open, its knob gripped tight in his hand, Jimmy could only stare in horror at his Boss, his heart plummeting into his guts, nauseating fear paralysing him in place.

The Joker, who only moments before had seemed to have entirely forgotten about Jimmy's existence, now stared at Jimmy with an expression of great insult, his long nose tilted upwards, his red mouth pulled down in a grimace of offence.

"Am I – _boring_ – you, Frederick?" The Joker enquired dangerously.

Jimmy tried to answer but only choked, his mouth so dry his tongue seemed an alien lump in his throat.

The Joker now began to advance on the terrified goon, who shrank up against the wall, his guts suddenly cramping in tension. The Joker's impossibly tall, lean shadow fell upon Jimmy's feet, then slid up his legs and rapidly over his torso before shadowing Jimmy's face in darkness as the mad clown drew up toe to toe with his trembling hired help.

"Fred," the Joker purred. "You seem to be in something of a hurry. Something bothering you?"

Jimmy's mind tripped over itself to find a response, to zero in on anything that might appease his psychotic boss and ensure his survival.

"The game - " he finally stammered. "I missed the game - " staring up into the Joker's souless eyes and toothy grin, Jimmy felt something inside him crack and began to cry. "I missed the big game," he blubbered, giving way to tears such as he had not wept since he was a boy.

The Joker's face pulled itself into an expression of concern and he was immediately solicitous, slinging an arm around the weeping Jimmy's shoulder and tugging him in close in an uncomfortably chummy fashion.

"Aw Fred, there, there," the Joker consoled him, his voice like splinters dragged against Jimmy's skin, his breath blistering. "No need to fret – as a very wise man once said - " and then the Joker was sliding his free hand inside his jacket and Jimmy knew his number was up. His head gew light and his body grew numb as though his soul had already begun to depart. He marvelled at the sensation before, with his last few moments of cognizant thought, he realised the Joker had sprayed him with something from his lapel flower. As paralysis gripped every muscle and his jaw clenched in a frightful death rattle, the last words Jimmy Callow would ever hear echoed in his ears: "Nothing is permanent in this wicked world – not even our troubles!"

**ooo**

_Hey hey! Wow, I last updated this fic in November. But I started writing it in JULY! Holy cow. I'm sorry it's taken me so long. Life is just crazy busy!_

_That last quote is a Charlie Chaplin one __–__ but hopefully the theme of this story is clear by now! :)_

_For those who are interested, I also have another completed JokerxHarley smut epic available at my JokerxHarley Fanfiction Archive account. Just go to my profile here and there's a link. The new fic is called 'Show Time' and is a direct sequel to my fic 'First Time'. _

_I'll try and get the next chapter out a little sooner! Thanks heaps for reading and please do leave a review __–__ they're so appreciated, especially now I've gone so quiet! ;)_

_Hope you all had a wonderful holiday season! 3_


	6. Chapter 6

**SIX**

Benita Leigh sighed and hoisted up the stack of daily newspapers from where the delivery truck had dropped them at the front door of the Baby Cakes Shoppe, a bakery that sold a dazzling array of inventive cupcakes.

She had kept the glass door propped open with her hindquarters as she'd bent to retrieve the papers, now she backed into the shoppe, already warm from the early-morning baking frenzy she enacted every day, and stooped to place the papers on the long, low coffee table, cutting the cord that bound them together.

One hundred newspapers every day free for her clientele was an extravagance but she was determined for Baby Cakes to make and sustain an image of indulgence with a little old-school hospitality.

Baby Cakes had been conceived when, as a struggling university student, she had been unable to afford gifts for birthdays, housewarmings and the like. Baked goods were the answer and as she continually innovated on the classic treat, she found herself being casually commissioned to cater for larger and larger events.

Upon graduating, she decided to combine her MBA with her inventive cupcake creations, and launched Baby Cakes Shoppe - the gourmet cupcake bakery.

Although this enterprise had coincided with a sudden rise in the popularity of the already-loved treat, and although Benita turned over a healthy trade every day, after a year of business her profit margins still did not warrant the employment of any assistants - though prospects for the future were looking good.

But as it stood right there, it came down to her to rise every day at three-thirty AM, stumble into the bakery from the shabby flat she rented above it, slave for four hours in getting the day's produce prepped and in the oven between dashing upstairs to shower, do her hair and makeup and tie a clean apron around a full-skirted dress (she cultivated the image of a fresh-faced 50s housewife) then running back downstairs to remove trays of cupcakes from the ovens and adding the final decorative touches - ready for an eight AM open.

Situated as she was in the heart of downtown Gotham, early-morning commuters were eager to pick up a tasty morsel to motivate them for the day of work ahead - Benita's carefully constructed confections of colour were beautifully contrasted against the bleak blacks and greys of the suits that stumbled into her shop - and she would be kept on her feet for another good four or five hours. Trade slackened off in the middle of the day, enabling her to whip up a few more batches of any variety that was running low, before picking up once more for the peak-hour rush.

When the Shoppe finally shut its doors at six-thirty PM, it was then to Benita to wash, clean, scour, mop, rinse, dry and pack away - with a short interruption at seven-thirty to hand over any unpurchased cupcakes to a local soup kitchen who came by (she refused to serve day-old goods in her store) - until the Shoppe was sparkling once more.

Finally, at nine-thirty PM, she would drag herself up to her small apartment, heat up a microwave meal while she showered, shovel food into her mouth as she clambered into her pajamas, and then fall soundly asleep - before beginning the whole ritual again the next day.

It was gruelling, demanding, exhausting and had thoroughly consumed her life - but she wouldn't give it up for the world.

Benita sighed as she pulled another rack of perfect cupcakes from the oven, recoiling from the waft of hot air that hit her. It was only a quarter past seven and already the Gotham summer day was promising to be a scorcher. It would be an especially hard day of work today - but without the obstacles of rain and snow, business should be good. That thought made her smile and strengthened her resolve to make this batch of chilli-chocolate cupcakes the best yet as she picked up the piping tube filled with chocolate butter frosting.

The bell at the front of the store jangled musically, signalling someone had entered the store. With a sigh of self-directed exasparation, Benita recalled that she had neglected to lock the front door after bringing in the papers. She tossed the piping tube aside and hurried to wash her hands and smooth back her hair.

"Holy gucamole," a voice rang out so loud and clear it was though the owner of it was standing in the kitchen with her. "It's as though I've crossed into a ginger-bread house!"

Benita smiled a little as she wiped her hands off on a tea towel. She had wanted the interior of the store to resemble as much as possible its signature product. She hurried to the door that led into the store.

"Cupcake, actually - " she began in a cheery voice before trailing off to stare, dumbstruck, at the Gothamite who had entered her shop.

The Joker stood in the midst of her warmly-lit, brightly-coloured Gourmet Cupcake Bakery.

He stood, tall and thin, in the very centre of her store, between the arangement of plush red couches strewn in canary yellow and baby blue pillows, and violet and melon-orange cushioned booths. The vivid jewel-tones of his purple suit, orange shirt and green hair overpowered the soft pastels of her store's interior. Wheras most clients in their sombre business suits were just awkwardly out of place against the candy pinks and apple greens of the walls, the Joker seemed to have been vomited out of the decor.

Benita heard a funny, strangled noise come from her open mouth, but found she could not move. Fear paralysed her and a strange prickling rush of sensation swam down through her stomach and legs.

The Joker glared at her as though it was the most ordinary thing in the world for him to be inside her bakery, and spoke again: "I'm depressed," his voice had a strange pitch, like nails on a chalkboard muffled in velvet. He stared at her a moment longer before a thin smile slid up his face. "I need something sweet to eat."

Benita swallowed, then licked her lips, the taste of gloss familiar and bitter.

The Joker advanced on the brightly-lit display counter, rows and rows of brilliantly decorated cupcakes lined up beneath polished glass. Without breaking stride, he scooped up a paper from the coffee table and tucked it beneath his arm. In this simple act, Benita noticed he was wearing leather gloves and marvelled at that fact - _in this weather?_ The triviality of this detail when facing the city's most feared psychopath didn't occur to her. Her mind was on auto-pilot.

"Ohhhh, so many goodies!" The Joker giggled and pressed both hands flat against the glass display, bending down close to peer at them with boggling eyes. "I had a hankering for jelly doughnuts but the Kispy Kreme schlub claimed it was too early to oblige," he lifted his head to merrily inform her: "so I forcefed him a vat of jelly filling and rang the customer service line to lodge a complaint! Heh heh!"

He lowered his head once more to examine the goods and Benita slowly felt the first paralysis of fear wear off, leaving her knees trembling violently.

The Joker was screwing his wide mouth into a grimace of confusion, brows furrowing. "These all look very fancy-shmancy," he announced dubiously. "Whatever happened to the elegance of simplicity?"

That little part of her mind spoke again: "Says the man wearing a purple tail-suit." Still, she showed no outward reaction.

The Joker straightened a little and cocked an enquiring eyebrow towards her. "Yannow, you're not exactly convincing me to buy here. No service with a smile?"

The same part of her brain that noted the Joker's imperviousness to heat and wisecracked about his fashion sense prompted her that how she acted next may mean the difference between survival and death.

Like a wind-up doll, she started forward and hurried up to the counter.

"At Baby Cakes Shoppe, our aim is to reinvent the classic cupcake by incorporating traditional flavours with fresh twists, providing fresh-baked gourmet confectionary miniaturised as an irrisistible sweet treat!"

She realised she had simply recited from the bakery's press release; material she had no idea she had even memorised. The Joker was staring at her with a vaguely incredulous smile quirking one side of his face, eyeballing her as though she - _she_ - were a little odd.

"Well," he replied, pursing his brilliant red lips together, "what do you do for an encore? HA!" He straightened up entirely and she realised suddenly how tall he was, towering above her like a grim spectre of death by candy. She felt a blush creep up her neck and her heart pounded in earnest.

"I need a sugar hit," he said matter-of-factly, slamming his hands palm down on the countertop, newspaper pinned beneath one. "What out of these uppity little unncessarily complicated goodies do you recommend?"

"Well, what flavours do you like?" she heard herself respond, inwardly stunned at how normal her voice sounded.

The Joker frowned and stuck his bottom lip out and began tapping the spindly fingers of one hand on the countertop.

"If I wanted to deconstruct the complexities of my nuanced taste, I would've gone to a five-star restaurant," he snapped irritably. "I've been working all night, the hideout is bereft of sustenance and I'm depressed: I just wanted something sweet and delicious to perk my spirits up. Between the doughnut shop and the cupcake bakery, I didn't imagine my request would be so difficult to fulfill."

The mentioning of the doughnut shop recalled to mind the hapless Krispy Kreme employee's fate, and Benita was spurned into straight-out survival mode, mechanically reciting her customary spiel:

"Well, here we have a selection of our most popular flavours, variations on classics such as carrot - " the Joker grimaced and she hastened on, " - lemon poppyseed, choc-peppermint, strawberry-vanilla - " the Joker's grimace had lifted, but his interest had not quite been roused, " - but if your taste tends towards the more exotic, more innovative favourites include chilli-chocolate, peanut-butter - " now both the Joker's eyebrows had shot up and his eyes were beginning to shine " - and for the truly decadent indulgence, there is our unique lemon meringue, tiramisui - " again the Joker began to frown, " - sticky-date - "

"Sticky-date?" the Joker interrupted her, poking his tongue out. "As a _cupcake_?"

The cutesy-charm of tiny gourmet desserts was apparently lost on the Joker.

"Cheesecake?" she tentatively suggested and the glare the Joker gave her was enough to freeze her blood. She felt her skin begin to go numb and fell silent.

The Joker sighed and shifted his weight, once more smiling down upon her with a full mouth of teeth. "Listen toots," he said amiably, "I'll give you precisely ten seconds to convince me to make a purchase and be on my way, or you can consider me one _very_ dissatisfied customer."

He didn't need to say anymore. The threat was clear and with the full force of his reputation behind him, Benita knew the final ten seconds of her life were counting down.

But she had never been one to give up easily. As those ten seconds seemed to grind down to slow-motion, as each echo of her heartbeat seemed an individual lifetime, absolute clarity washed over her and she made one final grub for survival.

"Banana split?" she squeaked, lifting her eyebrows imploringly and shucking one shoulder towards the madman in a pre-emptive flinch.

The Joker stopped rapping his fingers. He quirked an eyebrow and tilted his head to one side.

Encouraged, Benita shifted to the cabinet where that particular innovation rested. The Joker's head swivelled to follow her with interest.

"It's a new flavour," she said helpfully. "Brand new this week."

"I like banana splits," the Joker said mildly and leant over to get a better look as Benita removed one from the tray and brought it out for his appraisal.

The Joker's brilliant purple eyes began to shine as he stared at the cupcake and Benita could almost swear she saw that wide red mouth begin to water.

Feeling a rising sense of hope, she began to describe this latest creation: "It's chocolate and banana cake with a strawberry filling, vanilla and marshmallow creme frosting, fresh slices of ripe banana, hot fudge sauce, a sprinkling of peanuts, a little fresh cream and a maraschimo cherry!"

The Joker stood tall and so erect he quivered, then snatched a hand out to grab the cupcake from her, whereupon he immediately began to scoff it greedily.

In three large bites, the cupcake was gone and the Joker was licking off the tips of his gloved fingers happily before turning his manic gaze on her once more. His smile was disturbingly friendly.

"I'll take the whole tray," he purred.

"I'll just box them up for you," she heard herself reply automatically.

She felt absurdly pleased with herself as she removed the tray and turned to place them one by one in the pink and brown printed boxes that bore the Shoppe's logo.

Not only had she successfully evaded a brush with death and carried on a somewhat normal interaction with the Joker, of all people - she had converted a new customer!

She had some vague awareness this sense of accomplishment was as surreal as everything else that was happening and that it was probably down to being in a state of shock, but it didn't really seem to matter.

Behind her there was the sudden _whump_ of fists slammed against glass and then the sharp rustle of paper. She whirled in seeming slow-motion, dropping one of the cupcakes to the black-and-white check tiles. She stared dispassionately down at the brown and yellow mess it spilled on her immaculate tiles for a moment, before lifting her gaze to the Joker.

The Joker was staring intently at the front page of the newspaper he had placed on the counter-top, teeth bared and eyes wide, the fingertips of both hands digging into the glass and paper.

She observed him with a strange sort of detachment, unable to decipher exactly what had caught his attention. Truth to be told, she was beginning to feel somewhat numb, as though she were high. Certainly the sense of floating out-of-body called to mind her one or two experiences with weed.

The Joker whipped his head up then thrust the newspaper towards her.

"Read that!" he snapped and shook the paper vigorously. "_Read it!_"

Benita's hand drifted forward and retrieved the paper and she turned it wonderingly over in her hands, stepping towards the counter, the spilled cupcake squishing beneath her rose-pink ballet flat.

Her eyes scanned the news-print briefly then turned in confusion toward the madman who hunched over the countertop towards her in a paroxysm of emotion.

"Read it!" he shrieked, drumming his fists on the counter.

Benita held the paper up and began, mechnically, to recite from it:

"Celebrated Charlie Chaplin impersonator, Trevor Franks, known best by his stage name 'Calvero', has become the latest victim in the recent rash of shockingly brutal Chaplin-related crimes.

"Franks was renowned world-wide for his hauntingly accurate portrayal of the famed silent movie comedian, not simply in appearance and mannerisms, but in physical dexterity and grace. An accomplished dancer and acrobat, his recreations of Chaplin's beloved routines were noted for their attention to detail and accuracy in execution."

"Impersonators," the Joker spat, flinging one arm up in the air. "A blight on the noble industry of entertainment. Riding the coattails of genius, skeeving off a better man's gig, content only to derive rather than devise. Be inspired, but never imitate - especially not one so high esteemed above you as the legendary Chuckers."

Benita stood silently, staring at the Joker. Strangely, she now felt entirely calm. Perhaps it was the numbness in her body. Ever since it set in, the ice-cold fear had evaporated.

The Joker flicked long fingers at her impatiently. "Well? Go on."

She returned her attention to the paper:

"In town to celebrate the one-hundredth anniversary of Chaplin's birth with a string of performances booked at Gotham's oldest silent movie theatre, Franks did not attend the dinner to be held in his idol's honour last night. Known for his devout commitment to all things Chaplin-related, this immediately raised concerns and a search was begun.

"Franks was found in his dressing room, at first seeming uninjured but confused and unable to speak. He was taken to hospital where it was learned that he had sustained a deliberate brain injury in his pre-orbital lobe. Examining physicians believe, based on X-Rays, the performance-artist was subjected to a crude frontal lobotomy."

The Joker was quivering in his excitement, eyes wide and shining, staring straight above Benita's head to the wall behind her. He gripped the edge of the glass display, hunched his shoulders up to his ears and ground his teeth.

"The impacts on Franks have been devastating: he has lost the ability to talk and has become non-responsive to communcation. His motor-functions have been drastically reduced. He currently needs assistance with walking and while Doctors are optimistic that with physiotherapy he will be able to walk alone, he will never again return to the level of skill required for his art."

The Joker lifted a gloved fingertip to his face, and scratched his long nose thoughtfully.

"Once again, a message was left with the victim, written in chalk on Franks' prized bowler hat, once owned by Chaplin himself: '"What can stars do? Nothing... But sit on their axis!' The words have been identified as a quote of Charlie Chaplin's."

The Joker had now riveted his eyes upon Benita, lips pressed together, leaning over the display top, breathing hard and quick through his nose.

"Whilst police are convinced this spate of horrific crimes are connected to the Joker, they refused to speculate on the nature of that connection."

Benita came to an abrupt stop and lifted her eyes to the psychotic murderer who, even in his brilliant colour, seemed to cast a pall over her formerly cheery and welcoming bakery. This close to him, she could see how blood-tinged his eyes were, how deep the shadows beneath them, how sharp the bones of his cheeks and jaw pressed against his chilling white flesh. He was ghastly and otherworldly, and utterly compelling and she knew she should be afraid, mortally afraid, but the world had simply slowed down for her, her body and mind insensate, as though she were packed in cotton-wool.

"How about that then?" the Joker whispered to her, as though he were shaing a secret. She blinked at him slowly.

The Joker folded one arm along the countertop and propped his chin up on the other, pursing his lips as he regarded her.

"Those cupcakes were superb," he said frankly. "And now that my no-brain screw-up of an ex-girlfriend is out of the picture, I need a place to get my banana split fix - hows your traditional mock-ups?"

Benita blinked at the Joker again. She simply did not understand what he was saying, beyond the compliment paid to her work. A small burn began deep in her heart, an echo of the pride and passion she took in her enterprise.

"I would very much like to live," she suddenly said, then started in surprise. She had not even been aware she was about to utter the words.

The Joker's eyes widened and his brows shot up in shock. "Well, of course, my dear," he crooned. "No one else makes banana split cupcakes. That I know of, anyway." He chuckled, before leaning back to contemplate her, one hand cupping his chin. "There's just one problem - one tiny little thing - " he paused for a beat, but Benita found she had once again retreated into deadened silence. The Joker tsked and looked almost wistful. " - well that's precisely what I'm talking about. No smile!"

He spun on his heel and began to walk around the counter, the click of his wingtips sharp on the tiled floor.

"Not since I walked through the door into this unbearably cheery, teddy bear's vomit of an abode have you managed to smile. Not once. Not even a little. Not even to show some pride in your work. Not even to persuade me to stay!"

He rounded the counter, moving smoothly towards her. All she could do was stare as he advanced, looming, a wicked smile frozen on his features.

He drew to a stop in front of her and took her chin in one hand, the leather glove warm and soft, his smile softening but no less malicious for it. "And if there's one thing I demand, nay, _need, _it's service with a smile!"

His other arm flew up and she felt something prick her neck. She gasped and her hand moved automatically to the spot while the Joker drew back his arm, revealing the syringe he held, that he dangled now nonchalantly from his fingertips.

Benita stared at the syringe, fingers pressed to the tiny puncture wound on her throat as the Joker leant back and watched her with a mildly interested grin. Dully, Benita's mind struggled to make sense of what was happening - did the Joker want his order of banana split cupcakes or not?

Suddenly, she felt herself gripped by a splintering pain that ran up her neck and out across her jaw and cheeks. She made a choking sound and convulsed as her jaw clenched hard and spittle began to foam out from between her teeth.

The Joker stepped neatly around her as she continued to shudder, hands flying up to claw at her face as the pain beat relentlessly on. He began to quickly place the remainder of the cupcakes in the box she'd been preparing for him. Biting into one, he glanced coolly at her as she fell to her knees, tears streaming down her cheeks as _something_ continued to happen to her mouth, her lips spreading and stretching back, her teeth gritted together and the muscles of her cheeks and jaws stiffening.

"Oh that's _much_ better," the Joker took another mouthful of cupcake and beamed at her as she drummed her head against the counter, trying to regain control of her muscle function by driving out the pain. "And, if I may say so, is a far lovelier suits that pretty face so much more!"

The Joker reached into a trouser pocket and withdrew a crumpled stack of bills that he dropped onto the counter top before picking up the box of cupcakes and petting Benita on the head.

"Don't worry, my dear, The agonising pain will wear off in two or three hours leaving you with the perfect finishing touch with which to keep your customers - a nice big, pretty smile! It's the most important thing of all if you want to succeed in life. After all, never forget - 'a day without laughter is a day wasted'."

The Joker's harrowing laughter echoed in Benita's ears as he exited the bakery, leaving her shuddering in agony as she hauled herself to her feet and stared in horror at her faint reflection in the glass display counter, streaked in colour from the cupcakes below: her mouth had been turned upwards in a permanent grin.

**ooo**

_FINALLY! I'm soooo sorry for the delay, all my loyal and patient readers. I hope you're all still with me!_

_I sincerely hope the final chapters of this will not be so delayed. I'm disgusted and annoyed with myself - it's so easy to let time run away from you and I've been so busy. But that's no excuse!_

_Hope you enjoy this chapter and please do leave a review to let me know if you're still out there after I have so long forsaken you! ;)_

_I am also likely to be changing my pen name soon to clownyprincess. :)_


	7. Chapter 7

**SEVEN**

Benjamin Long threw his book across the room and glared up at his ceiling as the burr of the buzz saw started up again.

The dangling seventies-era ceiling lamp began to swing violently back and forth, chips of plaster detaching from the moulding to flake onto the damask carpet and dozens of small porcelain dog figurines started to rattle where they were positioned across a variety of walnut surfaces, sideboards, cabinets, tables and shelves.

It was the umpteenth time that evening the buzz-saw had interrupted his reading - a well-thumbed collection of short stories about dogs by James Herriott - and Benjamin was at the end of his tether. Rage propelled him from his armchair faster than his usually stiff knees and wobbly elbows would otherwise allow and his slippered feet slapped against the rug as he stormed towards the door.

He didnt know who the rude neighbour was - in thirty-six years of residence in the old art-deco apartment block, he'd never found cause to complain about those who shared the building, all themselves of retirement age and concerned only with enjoying a peaceful existence in an otherwise hectic city - but he was determined to endure their intruding obnoxiousness no longer. On behalf of every resident in the building, he would take it upon himself to explain the rules to the intruder throwing their peaceful cohabitation into upheaval with their late-night buzz-sawing and playing of _In the Hall of the Mountain King_ at full volume so that Benjamin's Royal Doulton spaniel set nearly rattled off the sideboard.

Benjamin pursed withered lips and slid the King Charles Cavalier several inches away from the edge, back onto the one of the tiny doilies his late wife had crocheted in the dozens for each one of his little figures to stand upon. Yes, he thought grimly, set the expected standard from the get-go before things could get any further out of hand.

"Now mind your blood pressure, Benny," he could imagine his Doris' voice calling after him as clearly as though she were still alive, but since she wasn't, he elected to disregard the advice.

Benjamin marched out into the hallway and headed for the stairs leading to the next floor, gripping the banister with a liver-spotted hand. His elderly knees permitted him to take the stairs only one at a time, shuffling both feet up before moving onto the next, but he made certain to slam each heel down as forcefully as he could without sending too much of a jolt through his legs. His jowly cheeks quivered with fury as he reached the floor above and he marched determinedly down to apartment 405.

Fussing with the buttons of his cardigan, he mustered as much indignant rage as he could, then rapped sharply on the door.

He stood there quivering for several long moments, but the door did not open. On the other side, the music continued, and so did the buzz-saw. What in heavens name could someone be using a buzz-saw on in an apartment anyway?

He banged on the door, so hard his elderly wrist twinged. After a moment the buzz-saw whined into silence and Benjamin straightened up, setting his jaw and preparing to give his rude neighbour the rousing of his life.

But still the door did not open.

Huffing in stifled rage, Benjamin lifted his fist and pounded, feeling the reverberation all the way into his shoulder.

Immediately, there was the rattle of the lock and the door was wrenched open, Benjamin's inconsiderate neighbour having clearly been on just the other side of the door.

Benjamin's planned rebuke died on his lips as he met the new resident face-to-face for the first time.

The Joker was taller than he looked on television, and thinner too - though that may have been attributed to the fact he stood there in shirt-sleeves and slacks, without the bulk of overcoat, tailcoat and waistcoat to fill him out. He was older than Benjamin would ever have expected, though perhaps that was due to the broad, toothy grin on his face emphasising every laugh line that ran from his eyes and around his mouth and the protective goggles perched up high on his head, pushing his hair back so that his broad white forehead was fully visible.

As Benjamin gaped at the madman who stood before him like some ghastly apparition, the Joker's voice, low and padded with malicious glee, sent goosebumps tingling across his flesh:

"Well, howdy neighbour! I said to myself: 'Mr J, if he knocks three times, he's volunteering!' So, don't let me reward your community-minded generosity with any more delay - come on in!"

Then he grasped hold of Benjamin's cardigan and hauled him inside.

The apartment was a mess. The Joker had upended all the furniture, hauling books and records from shelves and emptying drawers into scattered piles across the carpet. The furniture he had dragged into the center of the room where he seemed to be cutting and re-piecing it into some deadly-looking contraption, like a deranged jigsaw puzzle. The air was heavy with the scent of sawn wood and singed metal.

Only one small table stood intact, upon it an opened laptop on which played some sort of community podcast, a couple of punked-out looking kids freely broadcasting every nonsensical thought that passed through their heads to the entire world.

Benjamin stared around him, rooted to the spot, hearing himself wheeze.

"I'm sorry I haven't got around to introducing myself," the Joker continued conversationally, picking up what must've been the offending buzz-saw and delicately brushing wood-shavings from its blades. "It's terribly un-neighbourly of me, I know. But well - I prefer my privacy. You know how it is. You throw the doors too wide open and all of a sudden folks are dropping by all hours of the night, interrupting one's work, breaking one's concentration - " the Joker's eyes rolled pointedly onto Benjamin and he realised, through a fog of shock, that the crazed killer was actually making insinuations about he, _Benjamin Long_, being a bad neighbour! " - it's best if you set the precedent from the very start!" He blew hard on the saw blade, sending whisps of wood shavings into the air, and cocked an eyebrow at his unwilling guest.

Benjamin sputtered, half in fear and half in outrage.

Then the Joker smiled and threw his arms out wide, light glinting off the blade of the buzz-saw as it arced.

"But since you extended the hand of neighbourly welcome, it would be positively inhospitable of me to refuse to take it. It can be _so hard_ to find willing volunteers and what better way for us to bond in co-habital alliance than working on a little residential renovation, hurm?"

And with that, the Joker grasped Benjamin once again by his cardigan and flung him across the room into a desk chair, which spun violently around from the force of his weight.

But something curious had happened to Benjamin as he faced the Joker's frightening grin and flinty-eyes. He had grown angry.

Here, right in front of him, stood an example of the very thing that had made Gotham City so unwelcoming a place to live for an old man. One of the costumed madmen, freaks of nature who had overrun a formerly glorious civilisation of culture, education and opportunity and turned it into their personal cesspool of vice, chaos and horror. And here he was, invading Benjamin's last sanctuary, sullying even the place he and his fellows called home - their only haven.

As the chair rattled to a stop, Benjamin gripping its arms fiercely to steady himself, he caught sight of a pair of legs poking out from underneath the upturned couch. He recognised the saddle shoes with their yellow laces as having belonged to Justin Brewer, a mild-mannered and cheerful old man who had known every resident's birthday and had always pushed a friendly card beneath everyone's doors on their special day. And gazing at the motionless legs, Benjamin realised that Justin was dead and that the Joker - this trespassing, inhuman, sick, twisted freak of a monster - had killed him and probably intended to do the same to Benjamin.

And Benjamin stopped caring about everything. He stopped caring about his high-blood pressure and about the book he had left abandoned upstairs, he stopped caring about his granddaughter's planned visit that coming Sunday and he definitely stopped caring about his impending mortality.

"Now see here," he barked and the Joker blinked in startlement. Benjamin noted this with a degree of grim satisfaction as he launched into his tirade: "You lot may think you run this city, but you've got another think coming! I don't know exactly who you believe you are, but I'll have you know that I won't stand for this, not in my own home, on my own front door step! You and your ilk are out there, tearing this city apart, trashing it like some damn fool hooligan teenagers, thinking you have the right to disrupt and ruin the lives of decent, hard-working citizens! Well, I've had enough! And I'll be damned if I let the likes of you bully me around! The nerve of you, breaking into a man's home and making all sorts of racket so that a body can't have a moment's peace even to read a book! And look what you did to Justin, who never harmed a soul in his life and did his time so that little upstarts like you could have your personal liberties kept intact - there'd be no three squares a day and a roof over your head in Nazi Germany, I tell you - they'd sort the likes of your deranged type out right quick in the gas chambers and no mistake! Insane - phah! You don't fool me. Playing the system, taking advantage of the civil-minded spirit of this country to run rampant on your own self-centered, anti-social little - fool around! You haven't a patriotic bone in your whole weasely body!"

All the while Benjamin had rebuked him, the Joker had stood with eyes agog and mouth slightly ajar, the buzz-saw hanging limply by his side, seeming too stunned to speak. But at his final words, the Joker roused himself and stood up straight, towering over Benjamin with a glower.

"I _beg_ your pardon," the Joker began indignantly. "How _dare_ you question my alleigance to flag and country? I may be a lunatic and a murderer and even a hopeless dreamer, but what true patriot is not? I don't think I've ever been so insulted in all my existence, old man, and - "

"Well, get used to it!" Benjamin heaved himself out of the desk chair, propelled by his rage. He could feel a vein throbbing in his forehead, his heartbeat came fast and painful under his provocation. "I'm too old and been around too long to be cowed by the likes of you anymore! You have no right, I tell you, no right at all when all an old man wants is a few hours peace to enjoy one of the last pleasures left to him before bed, never knowing if he'll even wake up the next day!"

_In the Hall of the Mountain King _had come to a climactic finish and the apartment was now silent save for the tinny sounds of the punk kids talking on the nearby computer. Benjamin and the Joker stared each other down across the sawdust-strewn room. The Joker's lips were curled in a snarl and his shoulders hunched up to his ears; Benjamin was panting heavily, finding it more and more difficult to breathe, his hands clenched into fists of fury by his side.

Almost casually, the Joker raised the arm holding the buzz-saw, opening his mouth as though to speak and then stiffened, a quizzical look twisting his features before he turned slowly away from Benjamin, towards the computer.

One of the kids, a squat, pimply boy with wild curly ginger hair, wearing short-sleeves, suspenders and a spotted bow-tie was enthusiastically waving the day's newspaper about. His companion, a pale boy with unnaturally black, slicked-back hair, wearing an all-black suit and thick-framed glasses, lounged back against the couch they were sitting on, nodding slowly with a sardonic smile. As Benjamin focused on the object newly of the Joker's attention, the boys' voices registered in his ears:

"So have all you devoted fans of Komedy Krunch been following along with the latest bizarro news to come out of this crazy city of ours? The newest chapter just hit the newsstands and is just as gruesome as the others - listen up!"

The red-haired kid shook out the newspaper and held it up, skimming the page quickly and reporting back to the camera while the pale kid nodded along.

"So as part of the Charlie Chaplin 100th Anniversary celebrations that have been going on all week, Professor Sarah Agee, the world's leading Charlie Chaplin scholar, was invited into town to give some of her most famous talks - "

The pale kid interrupted, pressing his hands together and leaning towards the camera.

"I was lucky enough to be a student of Dr Agee when I attended New York University and she really is incredible, in fact, she is so good at what she does that she is invited to lecture on the subject of Charlie Chaplin all over the place, not just here in America but all over the world too."

"Yeah right," the red-haired kid interjected. "She's like, world-famous for it. The paper here says she is a - " He squinted at the page and recited: "a powerful and innovative public speaker, she is highly sought after for her entertaining, educational and insightful presentation of the life and times of the legendary comedian."

"My mentor," the pale kid said gravely and the red-haired kid double-taked.

"Seriously, man?" He said as an aside. "I thought you only took one semester?"

The pale kid fidgeted, then nodded, glancing at his companion. "Yeah. I meant like, she sort of laid the foundations for my interest in, you know, understanding all the meaning in stuff - she sort of acted as a mentor in that way. In that, you know. I never fell asleep in her classes. So in that sense, she was mentor-ish."

The red-haired kid nodded slowly, digesting the words with eyes rolled up to the ceiling in consideration.

"Pft," the Joker folded his arms across his chest and rocked his weight backwards, screwing his mouth up. "The woman was an insufferably pretetentious pseudo-intellectual hack - explain to me, please, exactly what the point is in deconstructing and analysing the heart and soul out of the most noble and pure of all communicative forms - the Joke!"

Benjamin sputtered, bewildered and frustrated by the bizarre turns his evening kept on taking - he had gone from a stand-off with a madman to being utterly disregarded. The Joker no longer seemed to be interested in the slightest in Benjamin; but his own outrage festered, without satisfaction.

"Yeah, I get it, man, right," the red-haired kid continued. "she wrote some books too, we have them here in the Komedy Klub - "

"_Charlie Chaplin: The War of Comedy_ and _The God in the Clown: Charlie Chaplin, Slapstick and the Deliverance of a Nation_," the pale kid interrupted again. "_The War of Comedy_, I don't exaggerate, _saved my life_. Got me through a hell of a time. The woman was a genius and she understood comedy, in particular Charlie Chaplin's comedy, to a level that no one else does."

The Joker's shoulders hunched all the way up to his ears at that and his long frame quivered with rage.

"All she did was pick works of genius apart until there was no meaning left to them and then make them as boring as is possibly conceivable in dreary old tomes of self-indulgent academia!" he screeched. "She was a hack!"

Benjamin, meanwhile, was struggling to get his breath back as his heart pounded with impotent rage in his chest. The Joker's utter contempt of him was the final insult and he stared at the psychotic clown's back with venomous rage. He knew he didn't have the strength to overpower the man by himself, but the Joker himself may have provided Benjamin with the weapon with which he could defend his home - his right, under the law.

Trying not to wheeze too loudly, he shuffled over to the woodpile, the erstwhile Justin's erstwhile furniture.

The Joker's attention remained riveted to the laptop.

"So anyway, the point of all this is that this afternoon, Dr Agee was found by the staff of the hotel she was staying at, messed up in a really serious way," the red-haired kid continued to ramble on. "Listen up now comedy fans, this may upset some of you chucklers 'cos this is straight out of a horror movie - the hospital has reported that the front section of her _lower. Jaw. _Had been _totally_ removed by forced surgery. I mean, what kind of freak even does that?"

Benjamin grasped a chair leg and heaved it into the air, finding it heavier than expected. He studiously ignored the sudden constriction across his chest.

The Joker pouted intently at the laptop screen, cocking his head to one side as he listened.

"And if you think that's bad then get this - the Doc is in a stable condition but will regain only the most minimal capacity for speech after extensive rehabilitative therapy!"

"A fate worse than death," the pale kid muttered, steepling his fingers in front of his nose.

"And finally, just like all the others, the psycho nutjob pulling these sick crimes against comanity, left a little message at the scene - " the red-haired boy consulted the newspaper again as the pale kid leant forward, staring fixedly ahead through his coke-bottle glasses. "a bunch of Dr Agee's own books had been burnt in a pile in her hotel room and the ashes from them used to paint a message, which was yet more words spoken by Charlie Chaplin: "What do you want a meaning for? Life is a desire, not a meaning."

"Cold, man, cold," the pale kid said gravely and the red-haired kid tossed the newspaper over his shoulder before launching into another tirade as Benjamin heaven the chair-leg up above his head and prepared to bring it crashing down on the Joker's skull.

Abruptly, the Joker spun on his heel, arm snatching up to grab the chair-leg and giving it a push, sending Benjamin stumbling backwards into the broken pile of furniture. He cried out in pain as a a table-leg struck a kidney and the back of his head connected with a cabinet corner.

The Joker snorted, regarding Benjamin with derision as he rolled down his shirt sleeves, fishing cufflinks from his pockets to fasten them together.

"Ya can't kid a kidder, kid," he said easily. "Not you, not the Batman and certainly not our busy little boffin rampaging Gotham out there."

Benjamin felt a tingling begin in his left arm then a stabbing pain shot across his chest. He struggled to breathe, wheezing heavily, one hand clutching uselessly at the air, the Joker towering above him and gazing down with impassive interest.

The Joker quirked an eyebrow as Benjamin struggled to see through the haze of pain. "Hurm," the mad clown observed. "It seems the problem of the disruptive neighbour is solving itself. Not altogether necessary as I've decided these digs don't really suit my lifestyle, but I appreciate the gesture. Anyhoo, time for me to hit the streets - leaving you with a sentiment I'm sure you'll appreciate: Life could be wonderful if people would leave you alone!"

As Benjamin's eyes closed, the last thing he heard was the screeching sound of the Joker's laugh.

_SORRY! Yet another overdue chapter. The good news is: the next one will be the LAST, wrapping this much-delayed story up! WHEEE! I'm looking forward to it so here's hoping I get it done quick._

_Apart from being insanely busy, this chapter gave me some trouble in the composition and I think it's not really up to scratch but I just want to get it OUT THERE. God, I hope at least some of you are still reading, boo hoo!_

_I really do think the Joker would consider himself a true and earnest patriot and questioning that would madden him._

_I went to San Diego Comic Con last month and it was AMAZING. I have photos on my facebook - if you haven't already added me, add me at: http: / www. facebook. com/ clownyprincess - just removed the spaces from the address. I met Paul Dini, Bruce Timm AND Mark Hamill, if you can believe it! If you're interested in my stories of the event, leave a note in your review and I'll get in touch. :D_

_Thank you so so so much for sticking with me. You are simply wonderful!_

_(oh, I have another smut fic up at jokerxharley - check my profile for the link! :D)_


	8. Chapter 8

**EIGHT**

Harley Quinn sat in front of the light-rimmed mirror and stared at her reflection.

She had been staring for what may have been hours, unable to tear her gaze away.

Only days before she had been unable to bear the sight of herself, finding it a pathetic and nauesating visage. She had been shamed and turned violently away, clutching her stomach, feeling pained with disgust.

A disappointment. An embarrassment. A failure.

Her costume had seemed ridiculous, a cringe-inducing effort to play in the big-leagues, a realm in which she had no place in being, or believing she belonged to, and she had torn it from her in disgust and anger, heaving pained sobs all the while.

She had lain in the centre of a moth-eaten old oriental rug in a dressing room of a long-abandoned theatre, and bawled into musty wool fibres until past the point of exhaustion.

When she could cry no more, she had lain there and stared at rotting floorboards and begrimed sideboards while her tears dried and her swollen cheeks had soothed, becoming unbearably intimate with the knot of pain deep inside her.

She imagined many things while she lay there and wallowed in her misery. She had imagined the Joker sweeping the door open and scooping her into his arms, kissing her all over and assuring her all was forgiven. She imagined him finding her, half-starved and weak from heartbreak and being overwhelmed with sorrow for her plight, tenderly nursing her back to health. She imagined finding a note instructing her where to find him only for that to be on a rose-petal strewn bed, waiting for her with a big smile and a bottle of champagne. She imagined him simply holding her as she cried, rocking her back and forth on his lap, his face nuzzling her hair.

When she had run through the many impossible fantasies of reunion, when the emptiness around her was finally too much to bear, when every fibre of her being rung with the need for his presence, she pushed herself to her feet and made her decision.

She had paused in the midst of her makeup application, gazing at her reflection with a serene curiosity. Cowl on, greasepaint pristine except for the mask-shaped patch of skin around her eyes, her lips rimmed in black but not yet painted, she had stood otherwise naked save for a pair of plain white cottontails and one of Mistah J's vivid orange shirts in raw silk, billowing on her slight frame, in front of the large cracked miror that occupied one full wall, darkened with age at the corners.

The petite clown gazing back at her had seemed hopelessly young and insignificant. Beautiful, but not complete - there was something missing. Something that kept her from perfection, from ultimate realisation.

She had hated the weakness she saw in her eyes.

Now she searched for it.

The work of the last few days had taken its toll on her. She was drained in body and spirit, her shoulders knotted with tension, her head heavy, blood-spattered images playing constantly behind her eyes. Concocting the scheme had been challenge enough and for the first time she began to comprehend the depth of thought and consideration her Puddin' paid to each one of his capers, but then actually carrying her twisted visions out...

She had challenged all of her medical knowledge, her ingenuity and imagination, but most of all her soul.

With each atrocity it was as though she had stripped off another layer of herself until finally there was only the raw core of her left, nothing left to obscure the darkest heart of herself, nothing remaining of what was past to sully or distort what he had built.

Now she could not stop staring at herself.

She looked younger, strangely. She could swear it. She would have expected the opposite. But there she sat, seeming soft and dewey and new. Maybe it was a trick of the dim yellow lights framing her, but she thought she even seemed to glow, her costume freshly laundered and pristine, makeup perfect and complete, a creature of imagination.

But her eyes had grown deeper and darker.

It didn't matter, she realised. She could do anything at all and it didn't really matter. The Joker had told her this over and over and she had always thought she understood it, but it wasn't until she had actually forced herself to do something she would never previously have contemplated that she realised what it truly meant.

Actions themselves did not matter. But _how_ one did something - or, more importantly as far as Harley was concerned, _why_ - did.

She had undertaken the final stages of her journey alone, by her own choice, completing what the Joker had begun, finally, and all so that she could be truly worthy of him.

Yet as she stared at herself in the murky old dressing table mirror, she couldn't be sure -

Had she found herself, or lost herself?

The silence was broken by a sharp rap at the stage door - the backstage exit that was once used by actors to leave at the end of the show.

Her heart leapt into her throat. Only one person knew about this hideout, apart from her. It was the place to which they had retired in the lulls between capers and Arkham and they kept it closely guarded.

But why would he knock?

Her stomach twisting in knots, her blood pounding in her ears, she drifted across the floorboards to the door, the sense of unreality that flooded her making her feel weightless. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she grasped the tarnished brass handle and turned it, pulling the door open.

The Joker stood in the doorway, his arms filled with sweet-scented roses in varying shades of red, their velvet petals gently luminous beneath the glow of the single bulb above the door. His expression held a curious tenderness, his eyes fixed fondly upon her, a small smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," Harley said, one hand fluttering to her chest, unconsciously stepping back as the Joker stepped forward through the doorway. Her heart swelled unbearably, pounding hard as she tipped her head back to gaze up at the face she adored so much, the face she had found herself reaching out to touch in the darkness of the long, lonely nights she had spent lately without him, the face that had spurned her onwards through her harrowing journey.

The Joker flung the roses sideways onto a tattered velvet couch with one arm and swept his hat from his head with the other, not once taking his eyes from her.

"Words are cheap," he said in a voice suffused with unfamiliar passion. "The biggest thing you can say is elephant."

She recognised the quote from her research. All the work she had done to perfect her demonstrations of devotion had left her in possession of a plethora of information regarding the comedian her Puddin' so loved. Her vision blurred with euphoric tears as the Joker wrapped an arm about her waist and pulled her into him, dipping his head to kiss her with fierce passion. She flung her arms about his neck and kissed him as passionately back, delighting in the feel of his grip tightening, tugging her closer.

As they adoringly reunited in the backstage of an abandoned theatre, Harley finally knew beyond a shred of doubt that all she had enacted and endured in her bid to win him back had been worth it, that now she had proven herself and earned her pride. In the end, the only thing left missing was him to whom she belonged and she understood she had to lose herself completely before he could find her again and make her whole.

As the Joker scooped her up into his arms and carried her towards the rose-strewn couch, not once breaking the kiss, some final words of wisdom from the Little Tramp drifted through her mind, making her smile hard against her Puddin's mouth:

_"A man is what a woman makes him and a woman makes herself."_

**ooo**

_Finally, the end of this hopefully sordidly romantic tale._

_It was never intended to be a mystery - it didn't bother me if people guessed it was Harley or thought it was someone else. What I wanted to do was explore Harley's own capacity for cruelty and how that could possibly have been something she had to learn. For me, Harley is a character who sways between a true ability for human compassion and kindness to insanity-driven absolute ruthlessness and disconnection from empathy. I pondered if, at the beginning of her life of madness, the human side continued to rule stronger and was something she had to willingly be able to sacrifice at times. There's an element of an 'Inanna's Descent' to this story (I hope) although it is obviously not a direct retelling or true parallel. _

_I also wanted to explore her ability to scheme and prove herself capable of devising themed crimes the Joker could consider worthy. If Harley doesn't scheme, it's because she doesn't want to, that it seems like a waste of her energy - she's more along for the ride. But if she has something to strive for, she can plot with the best of them._

_Additionally, I wanted to contemplate what the Joker would actually find romantic - that he could be wooed by. A demonstration of her ability to be brutal in such a wonderfully theatrical way would surely appeal to his, erm, romantic side? There is romance between them but it is of a twisted nature._

_I'm so glad this is finished! Hopefully the ending proves satisfying for you._


End file.
